In my previous post, I wrote about my changing relationships with my adult children. As my son Ben, a 28-year old musician, observed in a recent email, “As we have come to understand that boundaries are different than they once were, we’ve tacitly accepted it but also had moments here and there where it has become clear that a specific boundary is different than it once was.”

And it’s in those “moments” that we parents often struggle. Should we remain silent? Should we speak up? And if we speak up, what do we say, and how do we say it?

Looking for answers, I called up Dr. Ruth Nemzoff, author of Don’t Bite Your Tongue: How to Foster Rewarding Relationships with Your Adult Children.

As you can imagine from her title, Nemzoff advocates speaking up—but with a few caveats. Here are her suggestions:

Lay the groundwork for adult conversations. One way to do that, says Nemzoff, is by sharing some of your daily dilemmas before your child leaves the nest. Annoyed at your boss, for example? Share the story.

“Often parents feel they have to be perfect in their children’s eyes or they don’t want to bother them, but children learn a great deal from our mistakes and our struggles,” says Nemzoff. “So learning that you were miffed at your boss today is an interesting thing because you stayed at the job even though you were miffed. How did you handle it? Did you blow up? Or did you talk to him or her a few days later?”

She also suggests soliciting their advice when appropriate. “Say, for example, you have a noisy coworker. They know about that. They face it every day in the cafeteria at school.”

Invite them into solutions. Chats about real-life problem- solving can set the stage for later conversations. For example, if your college freshman, home for a holiday break, bristled over rules set in high school, Nemzoff suggests making a pre-emptive phone call before he returns in the spring.

“Think about the rough spots and then talk about them on the phone,” she says. “Perhaps a rough spot was when you asked, ‘What time are you coming home?’ You can acknowledge that at college no one’s asking that, but explain that as his mother, you can’t just turn it off. Perhaps instead you can ask, ‘At what time should I start to worry?’”

“You have to be flexible, but so does he,” Nemzoff adds. “He has to understand that things have changed for you, too, and that you may not be as available as you were when he lived at home full-time.”

Choose your battles. As much as parents don’t want to feel silenced, they can opt to not say anything. “Being silenced by someone else is very different from deciding to be silent,” says Nemzoff. If your adult child’s behavior isn’t harming anyone, then perhaps you should remain silent and save your advice for another time, she suggests. Nemzoff also recommends couching the advice you do give as just one perspective, suggesting that your children seek other opinions as well.

Use the same communication skills you employ with others. As with anyone, timing, tone, and environment all matter when initiating an important conversation with your adult child. You wouldn’t ask your boss for a raise after making a big mistake, any more than you would loudly demand a raise in a public place.

“We fantasize that we can say anything we want to our kids, but the truth is, we never could,” Nemzoff says. “When I’m babysitting my grandson I don’t tell him that we are going to the circus while I’m putting him in bed. He’d never get to sleep!”

Maintaining open communications with our children is endlessly challenging, but ultimately rewarding. And, as Ben notes, always evolving.

“Gradually coming to see your parents as equals, or at least equally human, is a big one. While the first 18 to 22 years of my life were spent as the focus of care and attention while I faced various transitions, I now find myself somewhat stable, while my parents are wrestling with major changes to the life that they’ve had over the last thirty years. Seeing this has led me to understand our relationship as being co-equal in certain ways. For example, as a freelancer in a creative field undergoing major changes due to the Internet, I can trade ideas and commiserate with my mom’s journey as a writer.”

In addition to Nemzoff’s book, I also recommend this essay by writer Dominique Browning, which contains valuable tips for planning a vacation with adult children. In retrospect, if my husband and I had followed Browning’s first rule, “Turn it over to a younger power,” our Paris trip would have gone much more smoothly.

A dozen years or so ago, my husband and I were sipping coffee at an outdoor cafe in Harvard Square. Seated one table away was what we assumed to be a college student with his visiting parents. We could overhear the low babble and occasional laughter of what sounded like an easy conversation.

“I hope we get that with our guys,” I commented. “I certainly never had it with my parents.” Indeed, neither of us had. I lost my mother at age 17 and was left with a father who was unable to sit still for any normal conversation, while Paul’s parents lived several states away, and visits with them were rare.

Our two sons, who were in high school when we had that exchange, are now well into their twenties. And we have enjoyed numerous meals and lively conversations with them. For the most part, our adult sons seem to enjoy spending time with us.

So I was taken by surprise last summer when things went awry during a family vacation in Europe. The trip started out happily enough with a family wedding in Italy. But after we left for France, things started to go haywire.

Each of us was in the throes of a major transition. My husband and I were adjusting to his retirement the month before. Older Son joined us on the heels of completing an intense project —a concert tour with his trio that as “band mom” he had organized and led after a year of planning. And Younger Son was in limbo, awaiting final word on his Peace Corps assignment.

We were all making huge changes, and while we didn’t know it, our relationships with each other were changing too. There were squabbles and showdowns the likes of which we hadn’t experienced since the boys were teenagers. In fact, I felt as though the ride from Florence to Paris took place in a time machine, rather than on a train.

View from inside the time capsule

For one thing, our sons were no longer willing to sit back and let Dad lead the way. With three leaders and only one follower, it took us forever to get anywhere. Finally, Younger Son grabbed my husband’s GPS and laid down the law. “I know what I’m doing, Dad. Let me lead.” And Older Son, who had been riding the Paris subways for a couple of weeks by this time, had his own ideas about which trains we should take.

What do you mean I'm supposed to follow you?

And Dad wasn’t the only one being chastised, I was in for some critiquing too, and unlike my husband, I let it get to me. I will always remember this trip as the one where I walked around Paris with a constant lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. My children didn’t need me — did they even like me? —and there was nothing I could do about it.

Alone in Paris (photo by Paul Syversen)

Except that there was. After a serious talk with one son, and a loud argument with the other (I yelled), and some time apart, we did manage to come together and enjoy each other’s company. But I know I wasn’t the only one heading home with this equation in my head: family+ vacation = oxymoron.

Then, Christmas rolled around, and something had changed again. One son suggested that we each cook a dish or two for the family dinner. Everyone liked the idea and my husband and I were thrilled to share that responsibility.

The transformational moment arrived when the two young men came back from buying ingredients at the grocery store, and neither of them handed us a receipt. Clearly, they were taking full ownership for their portion of the meal. Although we haven’t supported either of them financially for some time, in that moment something changed. I saw them more clearly as equals and Paul and I were no longer just parents, but people too. The resulting feast was especially delicious.

I now know that as tough as that Paris trip was, it helped us all move forward. I realized (and I hope we all did) that the four of us have to keep talking and listening, and that sometimes the most difficult conversations are also the most rewarding.

I’ve also discovered that my relationship with my adult children will always require tweaking and even major adjustments. And though I advocate initiating difficult conversations, there are ways to handle them that don’t involve yelling — or even tears.

It’s been a quiet week here. Lots of changes in the wind. Lots of ideas percolating for this blog. One thing I’ve wanted to share for a long time is my daily walk.

Just down the street from my house is a trail that takes me into the town woods — affectionately known as Fairyland.

(For a better view, click on each photo.)

Entrance to Fairyland

It’s not so easy, however, to take photos while keeping tabs on a busy puppy. My husband, Paul, joined us yesterday, leaving my hands free to hold a camera.

Entering the birch grove.

The trail is marked with quotes by Henry David Thoreau, who once wandered these woods.

Thoreau's reflection on the white birch

No wonder, then, that the white birch is so prevalent and characteristic a tree with us and that the seedling birches spring up every year on so many neglected spots, but especially where the surface has been cleared or burned.

And there are other markers and whimsy as we wander down the trail.

Karina communes with the Lorax

And totems big and small left by fellow wanderers.

Bejeweled rock pile

Trail guard

And this large rock pile seen through the trees. From this angle, it reminds me of a snowman in what so far has been an almost snowless winter. For years it has been knocked down and replaced with amazing regularity. One early morning my dearly departed Hobbes and I came across its maker sitting next to it with his dog. I was too shy to ask him what he was doing.

Once upon a time, when writers like me were well paid for their work, an editor I wrote for joked that just for fun, he’d like to print the next issue of the business research newsletter we were working on in Wingdings font. “Just to see if anyone will notice.”

Back then, writers didn’t interact with readers so much. This particular editor always enclosed a short thank you note when he mailed me my print copies, acknowledging a job well done, and any particular challenges we’d faced in completing the article. I miss him.

And while those checks and thank you notes are no longer rolling in, I have found that writing online comes with its own set of perks. For one thing, I am connected to my readers. They respond to my ideas and we have an online conversation. I also can reach out to other like-minded souls by commenting on their posts. Holed up in my little home office, I value those connections more than I can say.

Even better is that these connections are not limited by geography. One of my favorite online friends is Heather Robinson, whose blog, Lost in Arles provides a guided tour of Provence. And this tour doesn’t take you to the usual tourist spots. Mais non! When you tag along with Heather and her faithful dog, Ben, you are traveling with a local, eating as a local, and experiencing the region as a local.

As a fellow redhead, lover of dogs, nature, and all things beautiful, I often wonder if Heather and I were separated at birth. So I was surprised, flattered, and delighted when Heather announced that she was awarding me and four others BOTH the Blog on Fire Award and the Liebster Blog Award. Thank you Heather, and bisous to you and Ben.

As part of accepting the Blog on Fire Award, I am asked to share five things about myself that you may not know.

I recently accepted a part-time job at a wonderful little store in Concord Center. What do I like most about this job? The fact that I can channel my inner fashionista and dress up two days a week.

My 16-month old puppy Karina and I are taking a class in “household manners.” Here’s the question, Who is being trained: her or me?

I secretly, desperately wish I could speak fluent French, how else will I ever move to France and have a regular coffee date with Heather?

I swim 3/4 of a mile 3 times a week. After two years of consistent effort, I am still waiting for the chiseled upper arms to emerge.

I don’t cook as much as my foodie friends might think. Without my husband to shop and cook, I’d probably exist on tofu, eggs, toast, and the occasional vegetable.

As a winner, I also get to pass these awards along to my own favorite five. As Heather noted in her post, “Something wonderful that both of these awards have in common is that they are in recognition of blogs with under 200 followers.” A couple of my own favorite five may have exceeded the 200-follower mark. However, they all meet my criteria:

Kathleen Volp artblog —Fine artist Kathleen Volp brings you into her exploration of language and image as she shares the process and thinking behind her artwork. Here’s your chance to learn what makes an extraordinary artist tick.

A Coastal Point of View — For those who know her, Cheryl Fuller Sparks exemplifies what it means to navigate life’s joys and sorrows with patience and grace. Join her behind the camera as she explores life through her lens.

Food and Fiction — First and foremost, Jane A. Ward is a writer — but she also happens to be an amazing cook. Her blog is a delicious combination of engrossing writing, photographs, and recipes that make your stomach growl.

Econesting — Ronnie Citron-Fink shares her expertise of environmental issues ( the “eco” part of the equation) and her love of all things we use and do in our “nest.” Her posts help me understand the science and politics of air pollution, inspire me to become reacquainted with my knitting needles, and help me relax.

In light of Susan G. Komen for the Cure’s recent decision, now reversed,* to stop funding Planned Parenthood’s program providing breast cancer screenings to low income women, this post was going to be about how much I dislike pink —especially the pink ribbons that have come to symbolize breast cancer.

I was going to insert the following quote from Barbara Ehrenreich’s article, “Welcome to Cancer Land,” in which she describes her “induction into breast cancer,” and eloquently documents how the color pink and teddy bears associated with it infantilize women diagnosed with this deadly and dead-serious disease. (And by the way, men get it too.)

For me at least, breast cancer will never be a source of identity or pride. As my dying correspondent Gerri wrote: “IT IS NOT O.K.!” What it is, along with cancer generally or any slow and painful way of dying, is an abomination, and, to the extent that it’s manmade, also a crime. This is the one great truth that I bring out of the breast-cancer experience, which did not, I can now report, make me prettier or stronger, more feminine or spiritual — only more deeply angry. What sustained me through the “treatments” is a purifying rage, a resolve, framed in the sleepless nights of chemotherapy, to see the last polluter, along with, say, the last smug health insurance operative, strangled with the last pink ribbon. Cancer or no cancer, I will not live that long of course. But I know this much right now for sure: I will not go into that last good night with a teddy bear tucked under my arm.

I was going to talk about how the pink ribbons, teddy bears, product placement, and corporate cancer-related branding strategies go hand-in-hand with our inhumane health care system, where the need to throw a bake sale to help pay for an uninsured neighbor’s heart surgery or a child’s leukemia treatments is considered acceptable.

But I’m not going to write about any of that. Why should I let those annoying pink ribbons spoil my appreciation of a perfectly good color? Instead, I’m going to take back the pink by sharing a few of my favorite rosy-hued objects.

First, a painting that hangs on my bedroom wall. It was a birthday gift from my grandfather, Jacob Scheinfein. It was probably my last gift from him as he died shortly before my 11th birthday.

My father was born on February 13. Every year on that day, my mother would pull out her heart-shaped cake pans, purchased just for that occasion. Being the 1960s, we opened a box of Duncan Hines cake mix, added an egg and water, poured the batter into the pans, and put them in the oven. The frosting was always pink.

In fact, it has been a week filled with pink. Yesterday, I came home with this bouquet of tulips. What’s not to like?

Bedroom bouquet

And just this morning, I had to make an emergency trip to CVS to pick up this item for my son.

Pepto Bismol pink

He’d eaten something that made him extremely and violently ill. The fact that he is now well enough to sit up, drink some ginger ale, and eat a few crackers makes me appreciate this particular shade of pink most of all.

*This short clip on NPR includes an interview with Dr. Susan Love, a pioneer in breast cancer treatment. Dr. Love emphasizes the importance of funding research into the causes of breast cancer.

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A blog about travels near and far, daily life, and issues that are bigger than all of us.